Ditch forced open what he thought of as an eye. His eye. Draconus stood above the blind Tiste Andii, Kadaspala, reaching down and dragging the squealing creature up with both hands round the man’s scrawny neck.
‘You damned fool! It won’t work that way, don’t you see that?’
Kadaspala could only choke in reply.
Draconus glowered for a moment longer, and then flung the man back down on to the heap of bodies.
Ditch managed a croaking laugh.
Turning to skewer Ditch with his glare, Draconus said, ‘He sought to fashion a damned god here!’
‘And it shall speak,’ Ditch said, ‘in my voice.’
‘No, it shall not. Do not fall into this trap, Wizard. Nothing must be fashioned of this place-’
‘What difference? We all are about to die. Let the god open its eyes. Blink once or twice, and then give voice…’ he laughed again, ‘the first cry also the last. Birth and death with nothing in between. Is there anything more tragic, Draconus? Anything at all?’
‘Dragnipur,’ said Draconus, ’is nobody’s womb. Kadaspala, this was to be a cage. To keep Darkness in and Chaos out. One last, desperate barrier-the only gift we could offer. A gate that is denied its wandering must find a home, a refuge-a fortress, even one fashioned from flesh and bone. The pattern, Kadaspala, was meant to defy Chaos-two antithetical forces, as we discussed-’
‘That will fail!’ The blind Tiste Andii was twisting about at Draconus’s feet, like an impaled worm. ‘Fail, Draconus-we were fools, idiots. We were mad to think mad to think mad to think- give me this child, this wondrous creation-give me-’
‘Kadaspala! The pattern-nothing more! Just the pattern, damn you!’
‘Fails. Shatters. Shatters and fails shattering into failure. Failure failure failure. We die and we die and we die and we die!’
Ditch could hear the army marching in pursuit, steps like broken thunder, spears and standards clattering like a continent of reeds, the wind whistling through them. War chants erupting from countless mouths, no two the same, creating instead a war of discordance, a clamour of ferocious madness. The sound was more horrible than anything he had ever heard before-no mortal army could start such terror in a soul as this one did. And above it all, the sky raged, actinic and argent, seething, wrought through with blinding flashes from some descending devastation, ever closer descending-and when at last it struck, the army will charge. Will sweep over us.
Ditch looked about with his one eye-only to realize that it was still shut, gummed solid, that maybe he had no eye left at all, and that what he was seeing through was the pattern etched in black ink on his eyelid. The god’s eye? The pat-tern’s eye? How is it I can see at all?
Draconus stood facing their wake, the convulsing figure at his feet forgotten for the moment.
Such studied belligerence, such a heroic pose, the kind that should be sculpted in immortal bronze. Heroism that needed the green stains of verdigris, the proof of centuries passed since last such noble forces existed in the world-any world, whatever world; no matter, details unimportant. The statue proclaims the great age now lost, the virtues left behind.
Civilizations made sure their heroes were dead before they honoured them. Virtue belonged to the dead, not the living. Everyone knew this. Lived with this, this permanent fall from grace that was the present age. The legacy squandered, because this was what people did with things they themselvea have not earned.
He studied Draconus, and the man seemed to darken, blur, become strangely indistinct. Ditch gasped, and in the next instant Draconus was once more as he had always been.
So little of his mind was left, so little of what could be called his self, and these moments of clarity were fast diminishing. Was there irony to be found, should the chaos reach him only to find him already gone?
Draconus was suddenly crouched down beside him. ‘Ditch, listen to me. He’s made you the nexus-you were meant to be the god’s eyes-no, its brain-your pattern, the one upon your skin…’
Ditch grunted, amused. ‘Each soul begins with a single word. He’s written that word-on me. Identity is only a pattern. The beginning form. The world-life and experience-is Kadaspala, etching and etching the fine details. By life’s end, who can even make out that first word?’
‘It is within you,’ said Draconus, ‘to break that pattern, Ditch. Hold on to a part of yourself, hold tight to it-you may need it-’
‘No, you may need it, Draconus.’
‘There can be no child-god. Not fashioned of this nightmare- can’t you under-stand that? It would be a horrid, terrible thing. Kadaspala is mad-’